Final blog post until after Sunday, the creative one, about finally being able to write something entirely unprompted by anybody else, all on my own. No content warning I can think of but let me know if there should be one!

A young man stares impatiently at the blinking cursor on his screen. Once upon a time the little line beckoned to him. It called him to come and make it fly. Skittering across the page at reckless speeds it  would leave a brilliant contrail of words behind.

But tonight, as it has been for years, the cursor simply sat there. The feeling felt stagnant and old in the man’s stomach. The helplessness of a child far too overwhelmed by the mess he made. He battled it every day, fighting to keep the floor just clear enough for him to breathe.

His slender fingers moved lightly among the keys, they did not press anything, he had nothing to speak of. He looked inside himself for those precious gemstones of creativity. Brilliant little bits of light that were the fuel of stories and poetry, of art and music. But the mess crowded around him so much that he could not detect even the slightest bit of light among the gray.

He was on the verge of giving up when it happened. A sudden blinding light and the flurry of his fingers moving to drum out it’s rhythm. It was imperfect as it was shocking. A dancer who has spent too long without music. But the more he wrote the more he was able to see the colors of what he was creating. The words and imagery he saw and thus wanted others to see.

Cautiously he stumbled and tripped his way over the steps. Taking the time to correct and recollect himself as he went on. Artistic pursuits are often the testament of ones patience as much as ones ability after all.

With a final flourish he completes his piece. A little unsure and unsteady but quivering with the excitement that he had done that which he had gone so long without. He sits back and feels, for the first time in quite awhile, satisfied.


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